


Permanent

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [41]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Language, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 05:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Arthur lives in Lancelot.





	Permanent

**Author's Note:**

> a long time ago, [](https://d-violetta.livejournal.com/profile)[d_violetta](https://d-violetta.livejournal.com/) told me to give Lancelot a tattoo. So here we go. ;) This is set during his first months in the police academy.

  
The _buzz buzz_  of the tattoo machine reminded Lancelot of a hundred bees, swarming his head and agitating as they attempted to nest in his curls. He stared at the wall; laying on his right side, his head resting on his arm, he couldn’t see what the man (Jamie? Jackson? His memory was awful) was doing to his left hip and thigh. It hurt.  He'd had worse.

He’d thought to drink before hand, but all the instructions had said not to as alcohol made you bleed freely; that was the last thing he’d need. He laughed and shut his eyes, the  _brrring_ and click of the machinery lulling in a way that freaked him out slightly.

The studio was on Sunset; it was a famous one that he’d heard of from of a few of his friends – the friends he didn’t hang with so much anymore. This artist – Jeff? Damn it – was fine with coming in in the morning to work on Lance. He had a lot less chance of running into anyone he didn’t want to see that way, and besides, it was just them, and he liked the drone of the needle and the peace and silence of the shop.

The artist pushed at the skin of his hip; his lower body was draped with a sheet, covering his front and his ass, but his leg and hip hung out freely. Smiling slightly, he opened his eyes and turned his head and made a complimentary noise.  He didn't want to interrupt the man at work, but what he saw so far was - well, he was excited to see the finished product.

The artist didn’t look up from what he was doing, but nodded as he worked. Lance had to suck in a breath as the man passed over a particularly sensitive spot; he’d thought his endorphins would kick in, but not so far. Maybe it was the amount of detail, or maybe it was the color. He laid his head back down and closed his eyes. They’d be done soon, and he could have a drink or three and then work up the nerve to show Arthur what he’d done.

“Almost done.”

“Okay,” Lance answered, clenching his stomach muscles, sweat pooling in the small of his back, his palms wet, his clothing rucked up around his waist. He tried not to smile or talk too much or do something crazier than normal, but as the man wrapped up the work, he laughed again. “Sorry,” he murmured.  He felt inside the way he did when he'd drunk too much caffeine or had eaten a fuck ton of sugar, like he wanted to spin and spin and talk and run around and shake his whole body till it fell apart at the seams.

The sun was sparking in through the large plate glass window they were next to, and he squinted as the artist set down his machine and told him to sit up and go check it out. Lance stood shakily, his balance screwed from having laid down so long; he let the tail of his shirt cover his ass and walked to the full length mirror that was hung near the front door.

He stared at his hip and thigh and smiled, a big goofy thing that stretched his mouth painfully and he cocked his hip and looked at his new tattoo from another angle. He felt disheveled and crazy but happy, so happy and he touched it lightly, gently pressing his finger into the decorated flesh, the whorls of black and red just how he’d imagined it.

“It’s okay?”

“It’s brilliant.” He managed the walk back to the table, where the guy (Jason! He remembered!) took a picture for him on his phone and then covered the new tattoo up with a bandage, instructing Lance to keep it covered till morning and _then wash it off with_ _antibacterial soap blah blah_. Lance listened with one ear, but didn't hear much of what Jason was saying as he handed Lance a tube of sticky shit to use for the next week or so.

He handed over the money they’d agreed on, plus an extra fifty for the work and the extremely early hour. Jason thanked him and let him slide his cargo shorts back on, his skin throbbing and tight, which Jason assured him would pass in a few days.

The bell on the shop door tinkled as he exited; he slipped his sunglasses on immediately and checked every corner of the street. No photographers, nothing except for normal people going about their normal business on Sunset Boulevard at 11 am. He wavered; should he call Arthur for lunch and show him now? But the guy had told him to keep it covered, and now that he thought about it, Arthur was working a late shift anyway.

Lance’s classes for the new semester hadn’t begun, so he had no other plans except for what he wanted to do. That was weird in and of itself; he’d been so busy with the first three months of school that having time off was hard to deal with and he cleared his throat, closing his eyes briefly, feeling the guns in his hands and hearing the whine of bullets and smelling cordite and residue and he shook his head and blinked as someone honked at him. Jesus, he’d almost crossed the street without looking. Maybe it was time for coffee.

There was a Bean directly across from him, so he jogged across Sunset and Fairfax (slowing down when his leg and hip throbbed) and opened the door to the coffee shop, inhaling the familiar aroma, ignoring the faces of the people that looked at him and joined the line, his arms crossing, protecting himself unconsciously. He kept his glasses on, silently being thankful the barista didn’t know him.

Settling at a table in the corner, his back to the wall, he sipped his latte and decided the four hundred calories he was currently ingesting from his old school donut were worth it. He touched his hip through his shorts, the skin sore, like he’d been punched. He smiled and drank his coffee, and watched the people come and go, and felt –

Fuck, he felt happy for the first time in –

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, grimacing at the caller on the ID. His light feeling floated away, bubbles he’d blown as a child, popping in succession, soap dribbling onto his pants, staining them.

He flipped the phone open and rubbed at his temple, _Hi Guin_ spilling from his tight lips.

*

4 am; what in the fuck was he doing up?

The light wind had forced him to cover up his tank and boxers with a hoodie of Arthur’s he’d found in the closet; he plucked at it and frowned but whatever the hell the Bass Pro Shop was, he guessed he could live with its logo on his chest. He scrubbed his hand through his newly cut hair and blinked fiercely. Arthur could be home at any time, but that wasn’t a good enough reason for Lance to be awake. He was a heavy sleeper usually; his life had changed exponentially, though, and having nightmares frequently was keeping him –

The door from inside slammed shut, the force of air blowing the blinds at the sliding glass window behind him. He rolled his lips inward and waited, knowing Arthur would see the lights inside, knowing the other man would come outside to see what Lance was doing.  He shoved his hands deep into the sweatshirt’s pockets and waited for the inevitable concern.

“What in the world are you doing out here?”

_Ah, Arthur, ever predictable_.

“What – why do you have a bandage on your leg?  What happened?"  Arthur was next to him in a heartbeat.

_And fuck_.

He’d forgotten to try and hide the tattoo. Arthur, swaying from exhaustion, leaned over and attempted to lift the edge of the thing up. Lance swatted his hand away and grabbed for Arthur’s arm instead, pulling him closer, planting himself in Arthur’s body space, hoping to distract the other man until he could think of something, a better way to tell Arthur about the tattoo he’d gotten and why.

“Everything’s fine; it's just…I’ll show you in the morning. How was work? You must be tired; let’s go inside.  I can rub your back maybe?  How’s that?” He squeezed Arthur’s tight shoulders and ran his hands up and down the other man’s arms. Arthur snorted a breath through his nose and leaned over, resting his forehead on the join of Lance’s neck and shoulder. “Please,” he said against Lance’s skin. “That would be great.”

Lance pressed his lips to Arthur’s temple; he smelled like gun residue and oil and sweat and pollution, his hair matted down from wearing his helmet as he drove. Lance rubbed and squeezed at Arthur’s back and Arthur moaned and smiled and Lance managed to drag him back inside, the “injury” forgotten.

He had the other man dressed in pajama bottoms and seated on the bed in record time, one lamp lit, the loft bedroom clean for once (Lance had actually picked up his clothing), red comforter washed and soft and Arthur let Lance work magic on his back, rapidly falling asleep under Lance’s ministrations. Lance tucked him under the covers and smiled as he kissed his forehead, Arthur muttering about something Lance couldn't quite catch as he dropped off.

Lance stood at the foot of the bed, his own tank and hoodie off and in the dirty clothes, his arms crossed again, watching Arthur sleep, the bags under the other man’s eyes deep and prominent. He sucked on his bottom lip and kept watching until the dawn threatened, pink and beautiful and finally Lance went downstairs and started the coffee maker, digging out the supplies for pancakes and bacon. He watched out the window over the sink as the meat popped and the mix for the pancakes sizzled in the pan, eyes dry, mind blank as he touched his hip again, the bandage ready to come off, but Lance not ready to explain it.

Hopefully Arthur would sleep for a few more hours, and maybe he’d have a good idea of what to say by then.

He ate his too large breakfast at the table and sucked down three cups of coffee before he realized how much he’d had, his hands jittering on the table, shaking the mug he held.

*

He peeled the bandage off as he stepped into the shower, the color of the tattoo still vibrant and lovely. He washed it gently, the extra ink flaking off, leaking plasma (ew) slimy as the artist had warned him it would be, the flesh around it bruised and painful but gods, he loved it. He loved the swirls and detail and he loved the color and he loved the placement and it was brilliant, Jesus –

“What did you do?”

He sighed and looked up. He was ready – sort of – to talk about it now, but naked in the shower was a bit vulnerable for his tastes. He rubbed his face clear of excess water and turned the shower off before Arthur could join him, although the other man still had his pajama bottoms on, holding the sliding door open as Lance stepped out, taking the towel from him.

“Lance. What is that? Is it real? When did you – fuck,” Arthur sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He looked more tired than he had the night before, if that were possible. “Why on earth did you get a tattoo?”

His voice rose an octave, his eyes narrowing, his hand going to the large design that decorated Lance’s left hip and thigh. “What made you choose this, of all things?”

The sword was red and grey and black and the hilt was drawn to be leather wrapped, a few runes sliding down its blade, the way the artist had shaded it making it look as if you could snatch the thing off Lance’s skin and raise it to the light, the color fresh and gorgeous and Lance slathered the sticky jelly stuff on it as he bent over, wincing slightly from the pressure it took to apply the salve. He moved to the sink, hair slicked back and washed his hands, turning to face Arthur when he finished.

He cupped the other man’s face in his clean hands and smiled at him. “It’s Excalibur, Arthur. It’s your gun. It’s you.”

Arthur’s mouth worked; he couldn’t seem to get any words out, but he raised his hands and covered Lance’s with them, his eyes narrowing as he stared into Lance’s, their gazes catching and holding as they always had done. He licked his lips and opened his mouth again, then shut it, tilting his head, looking at the shiny new tattoo again. He dropped one hand and touched the edge of the bruise surrounding it gently, Lance closing his eyes and sucking in a breath, his body reacting instantly to Arthur’s touch on his sensitive flesh, the slight pain it caused more than welcome. “It’s for you,” he added, his whisper tiny but filled with possibility.

Arthur lowered his other hand and laid both of them over Lance’s biceps, the grip tight, and leaned forward, eyes holding Lance’s, the green burn echoing through his brain until Lance thought he’d either have to cry or break away or head-butt Arthur in order to get him to stop staring. That brought a laugh and Arthur’s eyebrows collapsed in on themselves. He shook Lance once, twice, and then rolled his lips inward.

“Lancelot,” Arthur murmured at last, Lance's full name not used very frequently, his lips opening, then closing. He let go of Lance’s bicep with his right hand, pinching his eyes shut, rubbing his temple, his hand threading through his hair until it stood up in crazy whorls. “What if,” he said after a minute of seemingly thinking, “what if you change your mind?”

That made Lance look up, their eyes meeting again, and he jerked his neck unintentionally.  He rubbed at it and stared at Arthur.  “I won't,” he answered, choosing to completely ignore the other implication in Arthur’s statement. “I love the art and it’s fucking you, Arthur. I’m not sorry. Don’t act like you’re my dad, for fuck’s sake. It’s my body and I love it and I love you –” his breathless rush of words were cut off by Arthur’s lips pressing against his own, and he whispered the other man’s name against Arthur’s mouth and folded into his embrace.

Arthur crushed him against his chest and wound arms around Lance’s back and Lance had to forget all the shit he’d just been thinking in order to focus on the rising heat that always, always came between them when they touched, or even looked at each other. His hip and leg throbbed and he smiled, imprinting the expression on Arthur’s lips that were currently doing things to him he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Finally – a separation, a popping sound from their mouths – and Arthur shakily ran a hand through his hair again. “I don’t know what to even think, Lance. I like it too, a lot. Too much, really."  His voice trembled and he scrubbed both hands through his hair this time.  "I’m just – fuck,” he laughed, a barking sound, and plopped down on the edge of the large tub he stood next to. Lance plucked his boxers from the counter and slid them on, careful to not rub against the tattoo too much, and sat next to Arthur, the porcelain digging into his slender butt. He touched Arthur’s thigh and squeezed. “I am a rebel,” he twisted his lips and smirked. “You will now have to say that you are fucking a tattooed punk.”

Arthur guffawed until tears stood at the corners of his eyes. “Lance, you are so far from punk I don’t think you’d know it if it bit you in the well dressed ass.” He leaned over and kissed Lance again, this time the smile staying on his face. “I’d say thank you, but I don’t think that’s adequate. I really don’t know what to say, to be honest."  He shrugged and turned green eyes on Lance's leg, then on Lance's face; Lance opened his mouth to say _thank you is fine, it's for you, you can say anything and I'll love you regardless,_ but Arthur interjected.

"I'd hope I'm doing more than fucking you, you know," he said suddenly, catching Lance's hand, eyes narrowing.  Lance swallowed; he'd known Arthur would hear that the second he'd said it, and he shook his head, lifting Arthur's hand, kissing the knuckles.  He didn't respond, hoping the other man would just let it go for once.  Self-depreciation was Lance's specialty.  It kept everything else from hurting him first. 

He sighed and stood up, pulling Arthur with him. “Arthur, I love you," he said, the green of the other man's eyes bright and too burning to meet for long.  "Just say you love it and me, and then say we can eat something, because apparently the bacon and carbs I had weren’t enough.”

Another barking laugh. Arthur kissed him softly on the bridge of the nose, and shook his head. “I love your new tattoo. I love – and am weirded out by – your thought of me when you got it. I love you,” he emphasized the last words, and kissed Lance’s cheek, his lips dragging on Lance’s stubbled skin. “I love you. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?  I love you."  He kissed Lance's lips, a dry brushing, familiar and dreamed about, and Lance's leg shot pain into his skull, and he waited to wince until Arthur turned his back to exit the bathroom.  Three words, so beautiful, and so so - Arthur.  Lance wavered, standing in the bathroom in his underwear, his skin burning, licking his dry lips. Arthur turned back to look at him. “Come on, Lance, let’s eat.”

For once in his life, Lance shoved his milling thoughts away, smiled, and followed Arthur and slipped on sweat pants and went downstairs and ate his food with his lover and quieted his normally unhappy, whirly brain with thoughts of passion and luck and how he couldn’t do any better than he had in this life.

He rubbed his new tattoo through his pants and then took Arthur’s hand when the other man offered it.

 


End file.
